


Thirty-Three

by dyrimthespeaker



Category: The Haunting of Hill House (TV 2018)
Genre: Drug Addiction, Family Dynamics, Gen, Grief/Mourning, Implied/Referenced Character Death, Implied/Referenced Drug Use, Mental Health Issues, Past Drug Use
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-22
Updated: 2019-02-22
Packaged: 2019-11-02 01:38:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,127
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17878634
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dyrimthespeaker/pseuds/dyrimthespeaker
Summary: February 21, 2019. His first birthday without her.





	Thirty-Three

**Author's Note:**

> It’s the twins birthday today! Are you ready to get sad! I am!
> 
> Thanks to Shreya for the encouragement and feedback!

He’s used to being older than Nellie. Ninety seconds older. He never felt older, but those ninety seconds, they were fact. A useful thing to pull out when he felt like getting his way or making a point. Not really important unless he wanted to bring it up. And Nellie, indulgent as ever, let him. The ninety seconds weren’t very important, but they were real. They marked the exact difference in their ages, Luke always ninety seconds ahead.

October 28th changed that.

He didn’t know it at the time, but at exactly 3:03am on October 28th, it changed. Ninety seconds into a hundred. Into an hour, into a day. Every moment that passed just widened the gap. With every second he’s that much older than Nellie will ever be. And that much farther from how old she was. The gap ever growing.

It wouldn’t strike him until later, even after he first learned she’d died. Those first few days a flurry of grief and confusion. Trying to get through the infighting and the funeral and the _ache_ that she was gone. Then came the house, dying, coming back to life.

He had died at the house. Briefly, temporarily, but still. His heart had stopped and he’d been there. There with Nellie and Mom and Abigail.

He wonders if he should alter his own age accordingly. Did his time dead alter his time alive? Should he subtract those seconds, or minutes, and have a new total? He isn’t sure how long he’d been dead for.

And it wouldn’t stop him from getting older than Nellie anyway.

It wasn’t even the first time he had died. But he is certain it was the longest.

The first was an overdose, his breathing stopped, then his heart stopped, just as it had at the house. It was a lot like the house, lying on the floor in a pool of his own vomit. He was wearing nicer clothes at the house though. Plus the first time had been a proper overdose, not a ghost induced strychnine poisoning.

The clothes he’d died in at the house were nicer, but he’d take the crackhouse he’d died in first over Hill House any day.

He’d been lucky that day. Someone had cared enough about him to call for help. Funny, a house full of junkies and someone saw him on the floor gasping out his death rattle and saved him. Got another guy to help drag his limp body out of the house and called the EMTs. Funnier still that they’d cared enough to try to save him, but hadn’t lost sight of their priorities. (Don’t let the authorities in. Let’s get this guy out of the house, if he dies on his way out well, we did our best.) Luke wasn’t mad about it, he understood. Besides, it was enough they’d cared to try at all. That was more than so many others got.

Then it had been CPR and naloxone and IVs and life saving measures. Then strung out in a hospital bed being told he was lucky to have survived. That he almost didn’t. That he had died and they’d brought him back.

No one knew but Nellie, he never told anyone else. And if he’d had his way he wouldn’t have had to tell her. She’d called him in a blind panic right after it happened, left him voicemail after voicemail. He wasn’t easy to reach, he’d sold his phone for cash and he was living on the streets. She didn’t hear from him until day two in the hospital when he got his hands on a phone and she was the first one he’d called.

She’d cried when she heard his voice.

It had taken a while of her just sobbing over the phone before she calmed down enough to talk. He’d cried too. Both of them in hysterics and neither saying a word. But eventually it had died down and she’d said she’d been so worried, that she knew something was wrong and she had called him again and again and he hadn’t answered, why hadn’t he answered?

That question was the easiest. Easiest relative to the others at least. He’d sold his phone. They both knew what for.

The rest was harder.

He never could lie to her.

Stretch the truth a little sure, leave some things out. Maybe even dip his toes in a white lie. Use implications and things left unsaid to try to make things sound a little better than they were. But never outright lie (and that was funny too because he lied to everyone else).

But he told her the truth because she asked point blank. Said she’d felt something so very wrong a few days ago and she knew in her heart that he wasn’t okay. She demanded to know what had happened and as much as he didn’t want to, he told her.

After she knew, they made a pact that it would stay between the two of them. She was worried, but he didn’t want the others sniffing around. She always was too lenient with him. Let him get away with too much. He tried to make sure he didn’t take advantage of that, but he knew he did anyway. She was better than he would ever be (and the fact that she kept that promise, that none of the others ever knew, well that was just further proof).

That time wasn’t his first overdose and it wouldn’t be his last. But he’s pretty sure it was his only fatal one. It just didn’t stick.

Just like the one in the house didn’t stick either.

But he’s toed the line of death more times than he can count. He knows he’s been at death’s door more times than he can even remember. (Knocking at it, that’s what Mom said. Knocking on that door, louder all the time.)

He doesn’t remember what it was like being dead the first time. One minute he was high, next he felt like he was dying (he was), then he woke up in the hospital, still felt like he was dying (he wasn’t). But the house, he remembers dying at the house.

Remembers waking up in the Red Room, but this time pure white, no mold, no decay. Remembers Mom kneeling at his side, telling him stories about herself, about him, about how she named him. (Robin, he was almost Robin. He wonders if Robin Crain would’ve been as much of a fuck up as Luke turned out to be.)

Remembers looking up, past Mom, seeing Nellie and Abigail. Getting overwhelmed by buried memories of a tea party, of a little girl choking, of something scary and wrong that he couldn’t name, he just knew it was bad. Then getting overwhelmed as he realized he was dead, as Mom tried her best to get him to join them, to stay dead and be with her. Then Nellie, Nellie doing everything she could to save him.

And she did.

She pulled him out, saved him from death itself. She always was the stronger one.

(She should’ve been the one to live.)

He isn’t suicidal. He didn’t want to die, doesn’t want to die. He knows the two of them are a pair and never should have had to be without the other. But if it had to be that way, if they had to be separated, if one of them had to die. If it was inevitable, something foretold and unavoidable, he knows it should have been him.

It wasn’t.

She died and he lived. And now he has to live without her. (Without, but not without. It’s complicated.) Time goes on.

It’s February 21st and now instead of ninety seconds he’s four months older than her. One hundred and sixteen days, three hours, twenty-five minutes and thirty seconds to be specific. But that doesn’t really roll off the tongue and by the time he’s done thinking it more time has passed and the gap is even wider. Seconds ticking on and on endlessly.

He’s thirty-three and she never will be.

It’s their (his) birthday and they (he, it’s just him now) aren’t having a party this year. Their youth was all joined parties, but those had dropped off as they got older and he got less and less reliable. He hasn’t had a party in a long time. But she did. She always did. He wasn’t always around for it, but they’d at least have a phone call. Not this year though.

He didn’t sleep at all last night, couldn’t. So now he lies there in his bed just staring at the ceiling. Waiting for lights on. It should be soon. Then he can get a cup of coffee and take a shower. Do his best to look presentable.

The new rehab he’s at is in Boston. He’d moved back after Nellie died. He doesn’t know what he’s doing with his life, but he knows he promised her he was going to stay clean and he knows he doesn’t want to be far from her, not any farther than he has to be.

She’s dead and that’s too far, but he can’t do anything about that. So, rehab in Boston.

It’s his (their) birthday and he (not they, not anymore) has to put on real clothes and face his siblings. He’s being picked up on a day pass. They’re taking him somewhere. He hopes it’s not to Shirley’s (her funeral was there, he doesn’t want to go there), he really hopes it’s not a restaurant (it’s not neutral ground anymore when you have a breakdown in public), he’d be alright with it being at Theo’s new place (he hasn’t seen it yet, change of scenery might be interesting). He wonders if they’ll stop by her grave.

The coffee goes down easy and sits like acid in his stomach. He’s had worse. The shower is fine, mediocre as always. He considers himself in the mirror afterwards. He’s tall and he’s thin and he’s pale and his stubble is endless. He looks like himself. Not great, not the worst, normal.

He puts on a tshirt and a flannel and a hoodie. Big layers, conserve warmth. With those go joggers, it’s as close to real pants as he’s willing to get right now (athleisure was a godsend, wider availability of pj pants that were socially acceptable to wear out). Finish it off with sneakers and a coat and he’s done. He’s as ready to face the day as he’s gonna get.

He shoves his hands deep in his pockets and stands there, waiting to be picked up. He wonders if they’re all coming to get him or if just one will come and bring him to the others. He tries to remember if there had been any conversations about the day’s plans beyond “you need a day pass, we’ll come get you”. He can’t remember. He’ll find out what’s happening soon enough.

He wonders who’s going to pick him up if it’s just one of them. Shirley most likely. He’d be surprised if it was Theo. Hopes it isn’t Steve. That would feel too much like last time. Steve looking for him at rehab, then on the streets. Steve picking him up. Steve looking at him with that expression, that horrible sad expression that he’d thought was just because he was shoeless on the streets, but no it was worse. Inconceivably worse. Steve was staring at him like that because she was dead and he was there to tell him.

She was dead.

He hopes it isn’t Steve, but he tenses up at every BMW anyway. (Stupid, it’s not like Steve drove out from LA.) Still. Doesn’t stop his reaction.

But it’s Shirley’s sensible sedan that shows up. Shirley steps out from it, just as sensible and put together. Nothing flashy, but nice. Nice clothes, nice car. Not fancy, more practical. Normal. She’s alone and she tightens her coat around herself as she starts walking towards the center. Tucks her chin down into her scarf to ward against the cold.

He can tell when she spots him, her body language changes a little. A little jolt of recognition and she makes her way towards him. She gives him a once over. He knows he’s got bags under his eyes and he’s unshaven and he’s slouching. It is what it is. He’s looked worse.

“Hey.” She opens her arms and they hug in greeting. “Happy birthday,” she says as they part and immediately looks like she regrets it. She’s frowning and not so subtly watching his reaction.

“...yeah. Thanks.” He doesn’t know what else to say. Hopes they can move on and not linger on it.

She looks like she’s about to say something else, but thinks better of it. Instead she pats his arm and looks around him. “You’re ready to go?”

He nods, then follows her to her car.

Around minute five of painful silence he wishes he was back in bed at rehab. It’s a shitty bed, but at least he could be alone in the silence there. Maybe they would’ve let him stay in bed all day hiding under the covers like a depressed fifteen year old.

Probably not, but hey it’s nice to have a dream, right? (We all need goals, says the voice of a thousand therapists in his mind. It’s probably not as funny as he thinks it is.)

The silence stretches on and he knows they both feel it. It’s heavy, pricks at his skin. Makes him feel like fidgeting. He shoves his hands deeper in his pockets and tries not to move too much.

“So how’s rehab?”

It’s awkward, but she’s trying. The least he can do is try too. “Fine, it’s fine. Got my six month chip.”

“That’s great.”

He nods and the conversation dies out again. The silence isn’t quite as heavy, but it’s still tense. Like they’re both waiting on something to happen. He’s feeling pretty resigned to it, stares out the window and tries to figure out where they’re going. It doesn’t look like they’re headed to Shirley’s, but he could be wrong. It could be some route he isn’t familiar with. He knows he could ask, but he doesn’t feel like it. Doesn’t feel like talking much at all, but then he sees something he recognizes. They’re driving near the cemetery.

“Hey.”

Shirley looks about as surprised as he feels. He wasn’t really aware he’d opened his mouth, just heard himself speak. She waits for him to go on.

“Could we go see her?”

If Shirley had looked surprised before it’s nothing on what she looks now. “You want to…?” She’s speaking slowly, like she’s trying to not jump to any conclusions.

“The grave. Yeah.”

Shirley’s hands grip a little tighter on the steering wheel, but she nods. Her voice is a little high and tight, but she says, “Yeah.” She switches lanes and keeps her eyes firmly on the road.

He didn’t think she’d react so intensely, not with her line of work. But what does he know. Maybe she hates the burials part. Most likely it’s because of who he’s asking to go see. It’s family. It’s Nellie. Then he belatedly realizes she might’ve thought he was asking to go to the house. But he’s not going to bring it up to ask.

They pull into a spot and he doesn’t see anyone else around. He’s glad. She parks and they get out of the car together, but she trails behind him as they walk to the grave. He thinks she’s trying to give him some space and he appreciates it. They approach the grave together, but after a moment she starts to step back.

“I’m going to call the others, let them know we made a detour.”

He nods, he’s staring at Nellie’s headstone and only half listening. He thinks maybe she’s trying to give him a reason to be alone, but she’s being discreet about it. That seems like something she would do. She walks far enough away that if he goes all the way up to the headstone he can talk softly and not be overheard. Plus he can see in his periphery that she’s on the phone. He’s grateful for the privacy.

He kneels down in front of Nellie’s headstone and there it is, bold and in his face. Eleanor Vance. February 21 1986 - October 28 2018. There’s fresh flowers and he wonders who put them there. He’s glad they did, whoever it was. It’s good that there are people thinking of her, caring and putting fresh flowers there for her. She deserves it. (She deserved better, but he can’t change the past.)

“Hey Nellie,” his voice is barely a whisper, but it feels deafening. He pulls one of his hands out of his pocket, he’s got a handful of buttons. He’d been collecting them for her. Kept collecting them even though she was dead. He’d put the ones he thought she’d like the most in his pocket this morning. There’s seven.

He lines them up on top of her grave in an angle, the same way he showed her to all those years ago. Then he touches each one and counts out loud. When he reaches “seven” he pulls his hand back and sits back on his heels. “Happy birthday,” he says, and then he breaks.

Sobs so hard he’s shaking, cries harder than he has in a long time. He held it together better than this when he found out she died, when he first saw her body, all the way through her funeral. He cried during all of that, but not like this. This is out of control, hysterical. He can’t see or think or breathe, all he can do is cry (and cry and cry and cry).

He’s not really aware of anything, he doesn’t know how much time has passed, but he starts to become aware of his own breathing. He’s hyperventilating, but realizing seems to make it worse and he starts taking desperate gasps of air. He’s trembling and now he’s feeling lightheaded, tunnel vision, sweaty, but he’s so cold. He can’t see and he can’t hear, but he can cry and he can choke on it.

Something grabs him—an arm. It’s attached to someone… Theo? More awareness creeps in and suddenly he finds he’s surrounded by his siblings. He’s still choking and crying and gasping, but he can see them. They all look varying degrees of worried and frightened. Theo’s arm tightens around his chest and her voice breaks through the white noise hum of rushing blood in his ears.

“Breathe, Luke, breathe with me.”

He gasps again, but this time his inhale, though still shuddery, has a better attempt at control.

“There you go, yeah, like that. Breathe in, breathe out,” she’s speaking so calmly right into his ear and he starts to relax back against her.

It takes a while, but she keeps talking, coaching him through breathing. He can mostly only hear her, but he catches snippets of other conversations going on around them. Vaguely hears something about a restaurant and he latches onto that, the idea that they might try to drag him out to a restaurant is so absurd that he actually laughs. He’s still crying though, so it comes out strangled and hysterical. Theo tightens her grip on him and murmurs more soothing encouragements to breathe.

More time passes, he’s not sure how much. But finally he’s mostly calm. He feels drained, wrung out like a wet cloth that just got twisted and squeezed. But he can breathe and see and hear. He can feel the cool earth below him, the chill in the air, Theo still holding him, though not as tight now.

“Okay,” she says, and starts to draw back. Not leaving him entirely, but signaling that things have calmed down. He sees the others coming closer.

Shirley looks between the two of them like she’s not sure who to address. “Should we…?”

“We could see if we can get another table,” Steve says.

So apparently the plan had been a restaurant. Maybe it’s good he asked to come to the grave first if he was going to have this breakdown. He doesn’t want to think about the scene he would’ve caused doing this in the middle of a restaurant (sobbing hysterically into a nice white tablecloth while the waitstaff looks on in horror). He half wants to laugh half wants to cry just thinking about it (Steve and Shirley trying to act like everything’s fine while a thirty-three year old man breaks down at the sight of a birthday lunch).

He’s trying to figure out how to say he really doesn’t feel up to that, when Shirley says, “I don’t know if that’s the best idea.” She’s eyeing him skeptically. “We could go to my house?"

He tenses and Theo’s still close enough to feel it. “Or my place,” she says. He relaxes a little.

“Are you sure?”

“I’m sure,” Theo says. She gets up and offers him her hand. He takes it, but before he can try to pull himself up, Steve is at his other side with a steadying hand under his arm. Steve pulls him up and keeps his hand there until it’s clear Luke isn’t going to fall over.

“There we go,” he says.

Luke doesn’t say anything in response. Still feels a little like he’s floating. He feels Theo start guiding him and follows along. He’s aware that everyone’s watching him and glancing at each other, but he’s too overwhelmed and worn out to react or say anything, just lets Theo lead him to her Jeep and climbs in.

He realizes Trish, Kevin, and Leigh are all there too. Makes sense, both their presence and that they’d all hung back and let the siblings handle Luke. Trish gets in the Jeep too.

He’s in the backseat and he’s glad. Theo and Trish are up front and it makes him feel less like he has to try to hold a conversation. They’re holding hands over the center console and he kind of feels like a kid who just threw a tantrum and now his parents are taking him home (or maybe a kid who got sick while the family was on an outing, it’s not like Theo and Trish seem angry with him). He slumps against the door and watches the scenery for as long as he can stand until it starts to make him a little nauseous. Then he just closes his eyes and takes deep breaths. He’s counting to seven in his head to keep himself level, but makes sure not to do it out loud and draw attention to himself.

The apartment building they arrive at is nice. He’s glad Theo lives here, she’s probably happier. Living with her girlfriend, not having Shirley all up in her business. Or maybe Shirley only did that to him, maybe she gave Theo a little more space. Trusted her to not fuck everything up completely (it would make sense, Theo had her issues, but she wasn’t the complete disaster that he was). He can’t imagine Shirley didn’t stick her nose in with Theo at least a little though, that’s just how Shirley is.

Trish is nice. He doesn’t know her well, but he’s seen her a few times. She and Theo came and visited him at rehab a while ago. It was awkward, but he likes her. She’s seen a lot of shit and hasn’t run for the hills yet so. She must love Theo a lot. They must both love each other a lot to move in together so fast. He’s happy for them.

The others join them as they all walk towards their apartment. He looks around as he walks in and it’s nice. The decor is a mix of things he can easily identify as Theo’s taste and other things that must be Trish’s. They blend well. It’s a very grown up feeling apartment, no ragged second hand furniture. It suits them.

He feels his coat coming off and realizes Steve is taking it off for him. Makes him feel like a child, but he shrugs his shoulders and pulls his arms out to make it easier and Steve hangs it up with the others. He shoves his hands in the pockets of his hoodie and now Shirley has a hand at his lower back and is guiding him to the couch, he follows with no argument. Sits down and avoids eye contact.

And suddenly he’s so tired. He sinks back and closes his eyes, he’s leaned right in the corner where the arm of the couch meets the back. The lack of sleep is catching up with him he thinks, that and the wrung out feeling making him feel empty and drained. Like he wants to just curl up in a corner and close his eyes and not be bothered for at least a week, maybe more (definitely more).

The couch is soft and he can feel himself starting to fall asleep. He knows he is because he hears little bits of things being said around him, but no full sentences. That vague in and out awareness when you’re straddling the line between sleep and wakefulness. He’s pretty sure no one’s talking to him, but he thinks they’re probably talking about him. Snippets of things Theo is saying drift over him, “Panic attack… needs rest… emotional release…”

Then he hears, “Six month chip,” from Shirley, but after that he drops off completely.

It’s not exactly a restless sleep, but it’s not solid either, he drifts in and out. No nightmares, when he sleeps he dreams of Nellie, but they’re good dreams. A little melancholy maybe, but good. Nothing scary, nothing bad. Good memories, warm nostalgia tinged with the sadness of knowing he can never go back.

He’s roused more fully by Steve’s voice, he sounds angry.

“You think it was smart, taking him there?”

“He asked!” Shirley says. Luke keeps his eyes closed, he’s way too tired for an argument.

“So you’ll just do anything he asks?” Steve says, there’s that snarky condescending quality to the question.

“Oh shut up, Steve,” Shirley snaps, “He didn’t ask for anything bad.”

Theo interjects, “He’s allowed to fucking grieve. If he needed to do that today, that’s fine.”

“I—“ Steve starts, but Theo cuts him off.

“Stop fucking fighting.”

Luke’s eyes are still closed so he can’t tell which of them Theo’s aiming that at, but both Shirley and Steve stay silent so he figures maybe it’s both of them. The fight seems to be over now so he relaxes again, didn’t realize he was starting to tense up until he relaxes. Starts to drift off again.

He’s not sure how long it’s been, but he feels someone pulling at his feet and that’s enough to wake him up. He opens his eyes and frowns, trying to figure out what’s going on. Shirley’s untying his shoes. She makes eye contact with him and makes a shushing noise. “Go back to sleep.” He opens his mouth to say something, he’s not exactly sure what, but before he can figure it out she’s got his shoes off and has scooped his legs up and swung them up onto the couch properly. It’s not much movement, but it’s enough to disorient him a little.

Then a blanket comes down from above, Steve’s standing over them, holding the edges. He and Shirley tuck it in around Luke. It reminds him of when he was little. Right after Mom died, when Steve and Shirley were trying so hard to fill their parents shoes. To varying degrees and with varying success, but they were trying. Trying to be supports for their younger siblings, even though they were still just kids themselves. But they were the oldest so they shouldered that responsibility.

And maybe right now he wants to be that kid brother. Not have any responsibilities, not have to make any decisions. Not have the weight of the past and everything he is and everything he’s done coloring every interaction. Just be the baby of the family, let the others worry and fuss. His eyes have closed again before he made a conscious decision to sleep more, but now he’s comfortable and warm and his eyes are already closed so he goes with it.

He dreams of Nellie again. Nellie as a child, Nellie as an adult. It feels like a watercolor painting or an old sepia toned photograph. It has this warm hazy quality, mixing and blending, little bits from years worth of memories weaving together into a tapestry that’s just Nellie.

When he wakes he still feels her with him. He doesn’t open his eyes, doesn’t want to break the illusion. It almost feels like she’s there, like she might start whispering something to him. Like when they were little and got put down for a nap and would curl up together and make up stories. She would always lead, she’d come up with amazing tales and he’d chime in little details (and draw them, later. He’d draw everything she whispered to him when they were supposed to be asleep).

It feels like that. Like if he just reaches out, he’ll feel her beside him. Maybe still asleep, maybe just watching him and waiting for him to wake up.

He can hear his older siblings talking low in the other room and even that doesn’t break the illusion. He and Nellie were still taking naps far after the older three had already outgrown that, so they’d be up doing whatever it was they did while he and Nellie slept.

But it is an illusion and he can’t pretend forever.

He opens his eyes. It looks like everyone has gathered in the kitchen, leaving him alone to nap on the couch. He sits up and stretches, yawns and rubs his eyes. It’s the best rested he’s felt since… well, since.

Getting up doesn’t sound great, but he’s done sleeping, at least for now. He’s working up the will to stand up when Shirley comes in. He wonders if they’ve been checking on him periodically or if it was just by chance she came in.

“Hey,” she says softly, “Feeling better?”

He nods. He is. Rested and calm. Still a little drained, but instead of the wrung out feeling from earlier it’s more subdued. Like he’s a little muted, heavy. Tired and soft.

“Think you could eat something?”

He nods again. “Yeah.” He starts to move to stand, but Shirley stops him.

“I’ll bring you a bowl of soup.” She’s gone before he can say anything so he sits there and waits. She comes back with a bowl of soup, as promised, as well as everyone else. They all take places around the living room, making idle small talk. He’s glad they aren’t all being quiet, especially now that he’s the only one eating. He’d probably give up and go back to sleep if they all silently watched him eat soup.

It’s good, hot and filling. The broth feels nice on his throat and it warms him from the inside out. It’s soothing. A very mom choice to give him soup, but that makes sense. Shirley is a mom. And even before she was one, she tried to be one for him in so many ways.

Everyone gives him time to eat, they don’t try to pull him into conversation. He almost asks about everyone else eating, but he realizes they must’ve done it already while he was asleep. He also realizes he has no idea how long he was asleep and he does have to get back to the center at a certain point.

“What time is it?”

“A little after four.”

So he slept for a solid few hours then. “I have to get back to the center before dinner.”

“Don’t worry,” Shirley says, “I’ll take you back in time.”

“How’s it going there? The new place?” Steve asks.

“Good. It’s good. Got my six month chip so…”

“That’s great,” Steve says. Leigh is smiling at him from beside Steve.

He nods.

They’re all being gentle with him. It feels like early days, back when they all first realized he had a problem. Back when it had been all concern and checking in, offers of support and paid for rehab, kindness and care and sacrifices made just for him. Back before he’d ruined it all.

Before they were jaded by his lies and his stealing. Before they knew that his first rehab wasn’t going to be his last, not by a longshot. Before he’d taken all that concern and support and ran with it as far as he could, until it ran out. Until all he got from them was disappointment and disbelief.

And he doesn’t blame them, not after all of what he’s done. Sure, it stung. It hurt. But he can’t say he doesn’t deserve it. Hell, they still give him more than he deserves. All he can do now is try his damndest to make sure it isn’t in vain. To make sure to keep his final promise to Nellie.

“It’s a good place then?”

“Yeah. It’s nice. Not fancy, but nicer than the ones I’ve been to the last few years.” After he fucked up that first fancy as fuck one and ended up at shittier and shittier ones. “They’re big on therapy and psychology stuff. Y’know, mental illnesses and shit underlying addiction, root of the problem stuff.” He shrugs.

Everyone’s nodding politely. It makes him feel a little itchy, restless or something. Not exactly restless, he’s too tired for that. But off kilter.

“New psych says I’ve got PTSD,” he throws out there. He wasn’t planning on getting into it, but something compels him to lob it out into this situation like a shitty conversation hand grenade. And then, because he’s not done misfiring on all social graces he adds, “Can add that to the list with the depression and anxiety disorder.” Says it like a joke. No one laughs.

“PTSD?” Shirley asks.

“Yeah.”

“Makes sense,” says Theo. He’s not sure if he should be offended or grateful or what, but she says it matter of fact. He’s not looking for a fight though, so he just nods again.

“You’re doing okay, though?” Steve’s got this strange earnestness to him, like he doesn’t quite know how to ask the question. It kind of reminds Luke of Dad. (And isn’t that funny, Steve being like Dad of all people.)

“Yeah.”

“Even with…?” Steve hesitates, trails off. He doesn’t want to say it. Luke doesn’t either. Shirley’s gone tense and it’s Theo who voices what no one else will.

“Your birthday.”

Luke doesn’t know what to say so he makes some sort of half hearted shrug nod gesture and hopes that’s enough.

“Do you have attacks like earlier often?” It’s Theo the psychologist talking, not Theo the sister. She’s good at compartmentalizing and though he knows she’s the same person, he always thinks of her as different versions.

“Not… not that bad.”

“But you have them?”

“Sure,” He shrugs. “Been having them.” Which she should know, he started having them when they were living at Aunt Janet’s.

She nods.

“Isn’t there something you could take? To… to stop them?” Steve asks.

He fixes Steve with a level stare. “Yeah. Heroin.”

Steve splutters a little, “I mean—Jesus, Luke, I meant like—“

“Xanax? Yeah, sure. But it’s a habit forming benzo and also the drug I started with.”

“You started with xanax?” Shirley speaks up for the first time since things turned down this road.

“Yeah, my first psych prescribed it when we were living with Aunt Janet and I was supposed to take it ‘as needed’ so. Yeah.” (And then it was the fumbling teenage mixtures of xanax, cough syrup, and cheap beer. Baby’s first cocktail.)

They all let that sit for a minute, no one seems to know what to say.

He’s not sure why he’s being so confrontational, it’s not how he usually is. Or, not confrontational exactly, but… there’s an edge he doesn’t usually have. He doesn’t particularly like it, nor does he understand it. He decides to back off, that feels more like him. (Scared, quiet, weak.)

“Sorry.”

“No uh, I’m sorry,” Steve says.

It’s looking like they’re headed for another tense silence, then Trish asks, “Does anyone want some tea? Coffee?” It’s just as awkward and slightly out of place as everything else, so she fits right in.

Everyone mumbles out vague assent. Voting for tea or coffee. Luke opts for tea, wants something soothing right now. It doesn’t take very long and soon everyone’s sitting around sipping their preferred beverage. Luke holds his mug between his hands and enjoys the warmth. He’s still under the blanket Shirley and Steve had given him and he’s glad for it. He’s cold.

He’s cold all the time now. Not unbearably so, but colder than he used to be. He knows why, even if he doesn’t want to think about it too hard. (She’s dead. Dead and gone and cold.) It comes and goes in severity, always there, but sometimes a little worse than others. Today’s pretty bad, but he can play it off on the February weather. And now, the desire for comfort post breakdown. He sips his tea.

No one’s speaking much. A few quiet murmurs around the room, but no attempt at real conversation. They’ve addressed the elephant in the room, his birthday. But that doesn’t seem to have helped. There’s still this awkward tense energy. Though they didn’t really address his birthday so much as name it, so maybe that’s why. He doesn’t want to get into it though, the weird little stop and start attempts that have been made thus far haven’t led to anything good. He’d prefer to just leave it be.

But he also doesn’t want to act like it’s nothing, pretend it doesn’t exist. That feels too much like when Nellie died and everyone spent time arguing about each other instead of honoring her. He doesn’t want this to be like that.

“Remember when Nellie decided we had to have a Pride and Prejudice themed birthday?”

That startles a laugh out of Shirley.

Theo has a slow smile spreading across her face. “How could I ever forget _John_ Bennet?”

“John Bennet?” Trish asks.

“Instead of Jane,” Theo explains, “Because Nellie had fallen in love with Elizabeth Bennet and was going to dress as her, but there weren’t any Bennet brothers for Luke to be so they came up with turning Jane into John.”

Steve starts to laugh. “I nearly got caught raiding the wardrobe of the theater department trying to find two pairs of costume breeches. There was no way they would’ve let me take them off campus!”

“That was what? Your twelfth birthday?” Shirley asks and he nods. “Aunt Janet and I were up all night making tiny sandwiches for it. Theo even let me curl her hair in ringlets for it so she, Nell, and I would look right.”

“I made it work.” Theo shrugs with a grin. “And I found that CD of Mozart in a thrift shop that we played on a loop the whole party. At least there weren’t any words or we’d have had to cut that one short.”

They all laugh. It’s a good memory, Nellie had been so excited and so had Luke by proxy. Their aunt and older siblings had really gone all out trying to make it perfect for them, Steve even went as far as to try to track down a pair of top hats for himself and Luke. Luke was secretly glad that hadn’t panned out, he didn’t like old fashioned hats after Hill House.

The memory of that party seems to have broken the mood from before and now they’re all sharing stories about Nellie. Luke settles back on the couch and sips his tea, just listening and chiming in when he feels like it. He doesn’t feel like it much and ends up crying a few times, but he tries to keep quiet about it.

Every story’s tinged with a little sadness, but that’s just how it is for the Crain kids. Not even the happiest childhood memory is untainted by trauma. 

Before long Shirley’s checking her phone and saying she has to get Luke back to the center. They all hug and wish him well, making promises to call and visit him in rehab. He hopes they do, that they’re all going to come together. The way Nellie always wanted. (The way she now won’t get to see.)

Shirley drives him back. Kevin insists on giving him the front seat even though he doesn’t want it. He knows Kevin’s just trying to be polite, but it feels more awkward than anything. He can feel Shirley watching him as much as she can while driving. Like she’s waiting for him to lose it again. He just closes his eyes and tilts his head back against the headrest, he doesn’t want to deal with it.

She walks him in when they arrive and when they hug goodbye, she squeezes him a little tighter than he can remember her doing in a while.

“I’m proud of you. I love you,” she says as they part.

He ducks his head, doesn’t make eye contact. “Thanks… I love you too.”

The meetup went better than expected, but he still hasn’t lost that wrung out empty feeling. It comes back even stronger now that he’s no longer surrounded by his family laughing. The cold, ever present, creeps up his spine and chills him through and through.

He gets through the rest of his day on autopilot and when he gets into bed it’s a relief. He doesn’t want to interact with anyone else so the quiet and the dark are comforting. As well as the fact that lights out is mandatory, which means he won’t be interrupted, not until the next morning. He hopes he can actually sleep tonight.

He’s one hundred and sixteen days, nineteen hours, forty-two minutes, and thirty seconds older than her. Older now, by the time he finishes thinking it. His (their) birthday is almost over and he has to face down this new year alone. He’s older than he thought he’d be, older than she’ll ever be. But he lived and she died. Time goes on and he goes with it, further and further from her at every moment. Even if it shouldn’t be this way, it is.

She’ll never be thirty-three.


End file.
